Some one is coming to call. Up the red brick path between daffodils dancing I see white ruffles that blow: A parasol, dipping against the sun. It is some one stout, and warm in her new white gloves. My old green apron is smudged with the garden-mould. My hands are the hands of a peasant-woman. My hair Comes tumbling down into my eyes. I wish I could lie down flat like a child And hide in the grass, while she rings and rings, And sticks her card under the door with a sigh, And puffs away down the path. I wish — but the parasol bobs, And she bobs like a mandarin's lady, Smiling and bridling and beckoning. If I were a daffodil, in an apron of green and gold — But there she stands on the path, And her gloves are so new they squeak with newness and stoutness, And I know she will talk of the weather and stay an hour — If I were a daffodil — Or a little cool blinking bug Down in the daffodil leaves — |